


Eternal rest in time

by mahkent



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Body Horror, Non consensual body modification, POV Second Person, dissociative identity issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 09:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16083209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahkent/pseuds/mahkent
Summary: Take a pill when you feel the buzzing in your skull start anew. Take a pill when you wake up with a mask on your face. Take a pill when you have a hard time taking it off. Take a pill when you don’t throw it out, you just put it in your floorboard because you know you might need it in the future.





	Eternal rest in time

You keep fucking losing time.

You'll wake up and your pills are gone, but you don't remember where you put them. _Where are your pills?_ you wonder, but it's gone. Your brain is empty and your leg hurts because it got broke somewhere in the emptiness.

Your leg is broken. You know this when you wake in the backseat of your own car, parked somewhere you don't know, with your kneecap splintered, your ankle shattered. It's your right leg too, damnit, you need it to drive properly and the pain is so bad you scream as soon as you wake. You see how it's twisted in such a _wrong_ way, it's blurred through the eyeholes of the mask on your face, but you can see how blood’s stained the fabric of your seat. All you can do is heft yourself into the front seat and toss the mask into the passenger seat floorboard. All you can do is drive away, using your left foot because moving your right sends pain sparking through your entire being.

And it doesn't fucking heal. Your leg is shattered, and you barely scraped enough money together to afford a hospital visit when it's freshly injured, but there's not enough for you to go to physical therapy and you have to work so it stays broken, really. The lancing pain through your skin when you put weight on it stays tells you it’s useless. The ache when it’s cold tells you that maybe you should have sold something and gotten therapy, but it’s too late now. It’s too late when you’ve got a limp that you’ll die with.

You take pill after pill to stave off the buzzing in your brain. It’s fine, really, because you know it’s staving off you collapsing on the floor and seizing until you wake weeks later without a job. You’ve gotten used to the routine; if anything, it makes him feel like you’ve got a handle on your shitty life. A routine. Two in the morning, two in the afternoon. You’re fine. You’re fine, aren’t you?

You take pain pill after pain pill to fix your leg, when the pain gets too much to bear. Your leg twinges when you’re walking from your car to work. Take a pill. You’re standing behind the counter, serving some fucking customer who buys a meal that costs more than you get paid for an hour of working, and your leg goes stiff and sends lancing pain up your spine. Take a pill. Your head aches because you’ve been standing for hours now and you’re so fucking tired of the smell of marinara sauce from the meatballs. Take a pill. Pain sparks through your teeth and jaw because you’ve kept them gritted for your whole shift, maybe even the whole day. 

Take a pill when you feel the buzzing in your skull start anew. Take a pill when you wake up with a mask on your face. Take a pill when you have a hard time taking it off. Take a pill when you don’t throw it out, you just put it in your floorboard because you know you might need it in the future. Take a pill when you lose weeks at a time to the other person running your body that you didn’t know about until you watched that jackass dude Jay’s YouTube channel. Take a pill when you wake up with blood in your hair or new scars from running through the woods with the man running Brian’s body.

And god, are you glad Brian is here sometimes. They work together- the person running his body and the person running yours, they work together. The YouTube channel shows them working together to make videos and working together to hunt Alex and Jay. The video of Alex crushing your leg- it makes you wince, every time, because you hear the other person howl. You see the next time he’s following the hooded man around like a puppy how he limps. You see Brian in that damned hood pointing and making you do things because the other version of you is so, so devoted.

Maybe you’re just devoted to him, to the real Brian. Maybe you love him more than any friend should. (You want to feel his smile beneath yours, you want your lips against his and you want your hands running up his chest because goddamnit, you love him.) And Brian- when he’s Brian, anyway- stays at your house or you stay at his. You two stay close by because you know if one of the other people in your bodies wakes, then the other one will, and you’re fucked.

You know that Brian’s person, the one you both call the hooded man, will force yours out. You know your pills go missing sometimes and it pisses you off because you _know_ it’s the hooded man’s fault, goddamnit you _know_ , but you can never do anything about it because you start seizing so quickly and then more time is stolen from you. You know that if yours comes out then Brian’s will, he’ll take over and that’ll be that- no forcing, no manipulation. The hooded man _wants_ the masked man, the masked man _needs_ the hooded man. You both know this.

It’s most awful, though, when you wake from the haze of losing control. This time you’re sprawled on the ground of that damned Rosswood forest. Twigs dig into the soft space between your shoulder blades, leaves crunch when you move your head, and that mask covers most of your vision. It doesn’t cover the feeling of a body against yours- your sides pressed against one another’s, you _know_ it’s Brian because the hand on top of yours is gloved. 

You know it’s actually Brian because he shifts, he groans, he makes noises that the hooded man wouldn’t ever make. (They’re both so silent.) You know it’s Brian because he sits up, pulls off the hood, and tries to shake you awake. Your eyes won’t quite open- maybe they will, but you aren’t sure because everything is still black as night. Brian shakes you again, harder, you can hear him muttering _wake up Tim wake up please_. 

You sit up slowly. Something’s made your back stiff this time, movement difficult. You soldier through it because as you sit up you hear Brian sigh in relief. He grabs the mask on your face- it feels like he’s grabbing your face, a minor delusion if it weren’t for the sensation feeling so _real_. Without you deciding to move your hand, it lifts and scrabbles at Brian’s hand. You grunt and make a choked little sound with your absolutely wrecked throat (had you been screaming?) that has his hand stopping. 

“Tim?” He asks, hand still on your face (the mask, you swear to christ it must be your mask). You want to reply but words tangle in your throat. It’s a foreign sensation; you’ve always been able to speak, even when you were hallucinating and scratching at the walls in that damn hospital, you could always speak. You could always scream for help or plead with the doctors to _let me out let me out let me out!_ You could always try your damndest to convince them that _it’s right there, it came from right there!_ even though they always wrote your hallucinations off as lies. 

Brian’s hand shifts. It doesn’t move to take your mask off, no, instead moving to cradle your face. Keeping your head still (it’s been twitching, shaking, you’ve been following the noises you hear that come from things you can’t see) and keeping you calm. “Tim, hey... Tim. Can I take your mask off, or do you want it on?” He asks, like he’s been through this routine before. You forgot. You’re sure you forgot, because you can’t remember waking up by him before. Not when you both were masked.

The delusion of your mask being your face has to be broken, you know. You have to shatter it as soon as possible before it takes hold and won’t ever let go. The words catch in your throat, hitching against some barrier. “Off,” Choked past that barrier. Brian’s hand shifts, his wrist twists to try and get you to let go. Your movements are hesitant- the way your fingertips drag over the hoodie sleeve covering Brian’s arm makes you want to pull him closer. If it weren’t for him grasping either side of your mask with both hands you would.

As is, though, an anxiety that you don’t think is truly yours bubbles to the surface as his now bare fingertips (at some point he took off the hooded man’s gloves, you suppose) hook under the sides of your mask, brushing against your jaw. Those bare fingertips slide under your mask, your fucking _face_ , and pull at it. The pain- the pain is unexpected, hideously unexpected. Absolutely agonizing. The mask is pulling at something- Brian’s pulling at the mask, your face, your face your face your _face_. He’s pulling on your fucking _face_ and it wrenches a scream from your unwilling mouth, it brings tears to your unseeing eyes.

He stops. Brian stops, god bless him, his fingers pause where they are. His breath quickens before he asks hurriedly- “Tim, Tim, are you okay?” With a voice tight and nervous. You can’t reply, though. The pain lancing through your face, down your jaw, through every nerve and bone in your goddamn face - not your eyes, though, you notice dimly - distracts you. It keeps your jaw locked tight. _Take a pill_ your mind hisses at you, it hisses that you need a pain pill or something. A shame you don’t have any right now. 

Brian sighs, hands slipping away from your face. They slide down your neck, stopping on your shoulders. He speaks again. “Tim, it’s like... midnight. Some time at night. We need to get out of here. I’ve got car keys in my pocket, so chances are my car is parked at Rosswood, okay? We can work on your mask at home.” The voice is almost meaningless to your ears. For some reason it just isn’t clicking in your head, the syllables noise lacking any sort of definition, but you understand it still. Half of your brain- maybe more of it, maybe less- wants to sign. You know how to sign. The masked man signs. Are you the masked man? Are you Tim? You don’t know right now.

It’s easier to nod with your masked head instead of speaking. The strap of the mask, a thin elastic band that leaves your hair mussed up when you take it off, doesn’t hurt right now. The plastic pressed into your nose and lips and jaw doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Your face- your mask- whatever it is, you want it on. Brian doesn’t understand. He does understand that you need to be led right now, in your blinded state, so he grasps your arm when you both stand. As he leads you through the forest the hand moves from your arm, to your shoulder, to him just wrapping it around you. Comfortable just as your mask is. 

You can hear the crunch of leaves underfoot. Brian’s soft breathing just above your ear as he keeps pulling you closer, his stride smaller to conform to your shorter legs. Crickets and owls in the trees making their noises regardless of your existence. They don’t care about humans, and you find that you’ve stopped caring about humans outside of Brian right now. All that matters to you is that he’s got his warm side pressed against yours and he’s guiding you through a forest you know like the back of your goddamn hand. (You don’t need him to guide you. You remember running through the forest as a young child, fleeing from a tall man who wanted you to die and suffer under his cruel hand. You remember walking through this forest with that Jay moron for no reason beyond his stupid detective game. You remember wandering through the forest with the hooded man, following his lead and following the paths you know more than yourself.)

The exterior of the car is cold under your hand. Morning dew covers it, now that the sun is coming up (a fact you can only detect by the warmth gracing your back that isn’t from Brian), and you trail your fingers along the outside until you find yourself on the passenger side. You hear Brian get in, so you do too- he drives silently. The radio isn’t on because he’s afraid that he’ll hear codes that someone will want to decipher it. You don’t speak because you can’t. The drive is short, to your house; Brian doesn’t say a word to you. Not one word.

When you both get inside, he turns to you. He must turn to you because his voice is clear and loud in your ears. “Tim,” He says, voice desperate and afraid, “I- I tried to take your mask off, right? But it was like it’s connected. By- by tendons, or some sort of flesh, I guess.” It’s a statement you don’t understand. It’s just a fucking _mask_ , isn’t it? As much as you expect it to be your face, you know it’s some damned plastic mask from an art store that someone took a sharpie to. You _know_ that. It's such a ridiculous statement to you that you lift your own hands to your face. To the mask, you slip your fingers under it and feel- 

Well, you feel flesh. Tendons pulling taut as you lift the mask from your face. A sting in the flesh of your face, only around the borders of the mask, a sting that gets worse the further you pull your mask away- you let go. The mask seals itself back to your face as if it belongs there. The fear of whatever’s keeping it locked to your skin just compounds with the fact that you know the mask doesn't cover your eyes. So why can't you _see_ right now?

Brian is still standing somewhere in front of you, you realize distantly. The exact location of your friend is a goddamn mystery for a few moments until his hand touches your shoulder again. “Tim, if you're okay with it, we could, um... probably take a knife to those, whatever they are. It doesn't seem like they're anywhere but the edges.” The hand on your shoulder is soft. It's bare, the gloves likely shoved into one of Brian’s pockets; you slide your own hand off of your face and press it over his. A nod of affirmation, and he pulls a knife from somewhere (a pocket? You hear a rustle of fabric. Noises are borderline meaningless to you) and flips it open. “I'm gonna try cutting now, okay Tim? Tell me- er, make a noise or something if you want me to stop.” He says, then he slides his hand from under yours. That hand is put on your mask, your face, your face- it pulls it away from your skin ever so slightly. The knife worms its way through a gap. 

You didn't think it would hurt so bad, really. But the blade slipping through one of your tendon-flesh-strips- whatever they are, slicing it clean through, makes your knees buckle far too suddenly. Like someone just cut your goddamn clit off and oh _god_ , you howl behind your mask, it's acid pouring through your veins, the feeling is fire and everything awful-

Brian’s by your side, though. His hand keeps gripping your face and he murmurs something so frightened. He waits until you sign hurriedly _again again again_ to continue cutting. It's like pulling fucking teeth, it's horrible. The worst pain you've felt in your life. You've stood on a mostly broken leg for an entire shift before, you've torn your nails off by clawing at the wall in that damn hospital, and this is somehow worse. The fire keeps coming until Brian’s worked his way around the perimeter of your mask. He even has to take the knife to the eyeholes, then he can pull it gently away from your skin. So gentle. So fucking caring but all you can think about is the way it feels like he's pulling your _face_ off. 

Your howls reach a crescendo when he gets it halfway off. Though your vision hasn't cleared, you're sure you know how you look- red eyes dripping tears, your lips pulled away from slightly crooked teeth as you scream the pain away. Just like when you were little, you scream because it distracts you from the peeling sensation. The pain is a ten, a ten- you're so used to that six. The four extra points don't do anything but blank your mind out into static and nothingness when the mask finally slips free of your face and your body goes so, so limp against Brian. Bless his fucking heart, he simply holds you as you shudder and sob into his chest, tears and blood wetting it. He simply runs his hand up and down your back to keep you grounded as your vision doesn't clear. 

“Tim, let me see your eyes.” His voice rumbles. Through your face on his chest you can feel the vibrations; if his tone wasn’t so solemn you'd luxuriate in the feeling. You slowly lift your head instead, not quite managing to look at his face because you still can't fucking see anything even with the mask off. He grabs your jaw and points it towards him. Silence reigns. He stares, he's probably staring at you, his other hand lifts to trail across your eyes. You can't feel it even when he presses his fingertip _into_ your eye. You just feel the slightest pressure at the back of your eye socket when he pushes, but nothing up front. Nothing at all-

“Brian,” You choke around the thistles and weeds growing in your throat. The sound is so, so loud in the quietness of the room. “What- I can't see.” You say. It's unnecessary because he can see whatever's wrong while you can't. His finger still touches the front of your eye, and then- then it's sliding around it. Into your fucking _eye socket_ , you wriggle as he adds a thumb, it makes the pressure in your skull so _bad_ but his other hand is holding your jaw still. Your best friend forces you to sit there as he pulls _your eye out_. It comes out with a disgusting squelch, a feeling of emptiness filling your now gaping eye socket; all you can think about, though, is what it is. He took something out. The object is foreign and not your eye and oh, god, _where is your eye?_

“It's fake. Your- both of your eyes are _fake_ , oh my god- wait, hold still,” That kind voice is filled with horror as he pulls your head closer to his. A soft _oh, Tim_ is all you get for a few moments; his fingers let go of your jaw. Trailing up your cheek, they stop at your empty eye socket before plunging in again and opening it far too wide for something so fucking empty. “That symbol- the, the crossed out O- that _motherfucker_.” Venom through your ears, you don't understand as he presses your false eye into your hand and stands. Surely he stands, you hear shuffling then his sneakers hitting the floor as he paces. 

Words don't make their way out of your mouth. They halt in your throat even as you press your false eye into your head again, the squelch unnerving but meaningless when it's a placeholder for the real deal. The not-quite-silence stretches; you sit on the floor, lost without Brian to guide you, and he paces. He paces until you hear him stop. Those soft hands make their way to your shoulders again (maybe he's kneeling. You don't know.) 

“Tim, okay- the symbol is carved into, um, your eye sockets. So he took them out. And he might be the one who made your mask grow onto you.” That voice is gentle, now. Your only lifeline to the real world, that voice is soft and kind and you so desperately want to cling to Brian right now like you're some scared little kid. It's just that you aren't, right now. You're a grown ass man who wanders through the forest in a mask that grows onto your face. A tall man ripped your eyes out and now you're blind forever because of it.

Or maybe it isn't forever. You can't be useless forever, can you? It's bad enough that your leg is only marginally usable, now- oh, god. Nausea curls in your gut like a snake around its prey, and you press a hand to your mouth to stop it. The emptiness of your churning stomach just reminds you that you haven't eaten in ages, and you probably haven't taken your pills, but at this point you don't give enough of a fuck about any of it to bother. You just sit on the floor, listening to Brian muffle his panicked breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> i know i have some fics that need updating, and im working on them, but this gripped me by the balls and forced me to write it. ive got another second-person fic focusing on evan emh, too. ill focus on updating the dog-fic soon. 
> 
> anyway, i love tim and brian dearly. i also love pulling kafkas everywhere.


End file.
